


Swedish for Wait, What?

by histoires_eternelles, Mystrana, yamyamyam



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: ASL, Anal Sex, Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang, Clint doesn't have an inside voice, Disrespecting IKEA, Duct Tape, Embedded Images, Goats, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, Natasha is a troll, Reindeer, Sweden is nice this time of year, ball pit shark, idiots to lovers, it isn't as much of a petting zoo fic as the tags seem to imply, just to mix it up a bit on the ungulate front, purple everything everywhere, smooching and running, stolen macaroni, there's sex too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-04 06:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/histoires_eternelles/pseuds/histoires_eternelles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrana/pseuds/Mystrana, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamyamyam/pseuds/yamyamyam
Summary: Clint's just being a good landlord, repairing some completely accidental, not even his fault a little bit, he didn't TELL those robots to... Uh. Repairing some damage to Aimee's apartment, when he's banned from IKEA. Look, it could happen to anyone!Lots of things happen to Clint that could happen to anyone. They just... don't.So he does what anyone would do, if they were an elite secret agent in desperate need of stylish yet inexpensive furnishings: he breaks in to IKEA. He finds the shelving he needs. He also finds the Winter Soldier.Record scratch whaaaaaatThings... escalate quickly.Clint can deal with danger. He can survive the gravad lax. He can escape the ball pit. He can dodge Natasha's disturbing Russian metaphors. But falling for the Winter Soldier?Yeahhhh Clint's in over his head.TL;DR: Clint finds Bucky living in an IKEA. For reasons. Idiots-to-lovers hijinks ensue.Alternately: Clint came here to kick ass and assemble IKEA furniture, and he's allll out of Allen wrenches. Seriously, could someone assemble this furniture for him? Will pay in blow-jobs. Assassin experience an asset. Heh, asset. What, too soon?





	Swedish for Wait, What?

**Author's Note:**

> For the Captain America Big Bang 2019!
> 
> Words by yamyamyam  
Art by Mystrana & histoires_eternelles

It was NOT Clint's fault. This time. 

Okay the damage was very arrow-related, and that was—but—ROBOTS!

Clint doesn't robot. I mean he'd love to, don't get him wrong, a ROBOT boomerang arrow would be some next-level shit, and—

Natasha snaps her fingers in Clint's face.

"Did I ask whose fault it was."

Clint trails off. Is this a trick question? Like, that itself is a trick question with Natasha, because it's ALWAYS—"I don't... know?"

"I did not."

"Oh. I should have guessed no."

Natasha closes her eyes, then opens them, jaw set. "What I asked was, why did an IKEA explode in your living room."

Clint winces and looks around the room. "I wouldn't call it an explosion, exactly, it's mor—"

"You know what, let's say I didn't ask that either. New question. Why am I here."

Clint isn't avoiding Natasha's gaze. It's just... very interesting. Everywhere else. In the room. "Well uh. Because. Um."

"Clint."

"I was fighting doombots—it was work-related, see?—and I guess I missed one? Well not MISSED missed, I mean, I didn't notice it, because if I was aiming at it I would have for sure hit... Anyway. It followed me home, but instead of _my_ apartment, it broke in to Aimee's place on the second floor, and there was um, some property damage—while I heroically rescued her!—and I'm the landlord, right, so even though it was super not my fault I kind of have to repla—"

"Why. Am I. Here."

"I'm getting to that!"

Natasha drapes herself over the couch upside-down, glaring at—"Is that an Allen wrench? On the ceiling?"

"What? Oh, yeah, it. Uh. Like I was saying! I went to IKEA to get replacement cabinets and shelves and stuff, right? Like a responsible landlord! Which I definitely am! Only..."

"Only...?"

"Only-I-might-have-gotten-frustrated-and-broken-their-kitchen-design-computers-and-I'm-a-little-bit-banned-for-life-now-and-I-nee—"

"No."

"Aw, Nat! C'mon!"

"I am not your IKEA mule. Forget it."

"But—"

Clint turns around and he's talking to the cartoon cloud where Natasha used to be. He pulls out his phone and texts her.

**WORST BEST FRIEND EVER**

He sits back on the rug and sighs, running his fingers through a small lake of VADHOLMA hardware. His phone vibrates.

**still the best friend U got**

Ouch. He texts back.

**ACCURATE BUT YIKES**

**Because I still love you, I'll explain how capslock works tomorrow. But you're still on your own for furniture bullshit.**

And that—well, he'll take it. Capslock has been engaged on his phone for four months now, through two factory resets. He stopped trying to fix it after one of the solutions he googled got him to install a sketchy video poker app that's been deducting $9.95 every week ever since. Maybe Nat can get rid of that too. He's almost ready to ask Tony for help, but... okay, no he isn't. He may be the world's worst flatpack assassin, but he still has _some_ pride.

Or the world's best? The world's most likely to cause flatpack furniture to...

Clint looks around the room again.

Maybe it was a bit of an explosion. Point to Nat.

Okay, Barton, get a grip. All kinds of clueless 20-somethings figure this shit out, you can do it too. Aimee's roommate—Tom? Trish?—is out of town for eight more days, and Aimee is couch-surfing with some fellow bicycle messengers, so as long as Clint keeps footing their pizza bill, there's time. Deep breath. Maybe these instructions are just in mirror writing.

Clint gamely trots over to the bathroom to hold up the diagram to a mirror. The mirror does not reveal any arcane furniture secrets. He gets a paper cut. He's bleeding on the little stick-figure guy who is calling the IKEA help line for assembly tips. This is altogether too poignant for kitchen shelving.

Eight days. He can do this. He just needs a few replacement shelves and screws and... whatever that thing was... for the ones that were broken through no fault of Clint's own, anyone could have—no, no, stay on task, buddy. 

So. He needs IKEA parts but he's banned from IKEA. So what? He's a motherfucking spy. He can steal the fort from knox. He's got this. 

=====

Yeah, Clint's got this. He just needs to figure out how to get from the display floor to the warehouse and then like, how hard can it even be to drive a forklift, right? Living rooms, then bedrooms, then the entrance to the warehouse.

He confidently turns left, which should be a short-cut through to... Småland? 

Clint does not got this. 

He sits down in a toddler chair which promptly tips over backwards, dumping him into the ball pit. Clint lies back and considers the life choices that have brought him to this moment. Hey, ball pits are pretty cool! If this wasn't what he meant to do, it should have been! He's an intuitive planning genius. He does the backstroke. He dives under the balls and then leaps up. Ball pit shark! Ahahaha, ball pit shark, classic. Feeling a bit better, he stands up, shakes the balls out of his quiver, and regroups. Hah! There's the warehouse entrance, just past the escalator. He is a god among men. Cartography will be renamed Clintography. He strides over and opens the door.

The door does not lead to the warehouse. 

The door leads to the employee break room. 

The door leads to the employee break room where the Winter Soldier is reheating some macaroni in the microwave.

The door—

The door smacks Clint on the ass while he stands there, jaw dangling, trying desperately to reinterpret this scene in a way that makes sense.

Chairs. Tables. Sink. Mini-fridge. Bulletin board. Famed Russian assassin eating pasta. Microwave.

No that's... that's...

The Winter Soldier turns around, eyes wide, but makes a quicker recovery than Clint does and launches his fork at Clint. Clint's mind is still catching up, but his reflexes are on point, thank you very much, and he catches the fork in mid-air, tosses it aside, and has an arrow nocked before it hits the ground.

He scans the room, but it's empty now, the doors all silent, no indication of how or in which direction the soldier has disappeared. 

What the fuck.

Clint picks up the fork, sighs, and sits down to finish the Winter Soldier's mac and cheese. This is definitely a situation that calls for comfort food.

=====

Okay, so. Let's recap. He has eight, no, seven days left. He still needs IKEA parts. He's still banned from IKEA, and, more to the point, IKEA is APPARENTLY FULL OF COLD-WAR DEATH GHOSTS. He should really ask Nat about—No, Nat's gonna think he's fucking with her and then he'll never get out of capslock jail. Hmm.

He calls Sam. They've only met once, but there's an unspoken bond between them, the soul-deep understanding of what it's like to have Natasha make fun of your bird-related call-sign. Sam's a mensch.

"...Clint?" Was that a yawn? Shit.

"Aw man, sorry, did I wake you up?"

"Little bit. We're in Bulgaria. You know, on the hunt for tall dark and clanky."

"I'm sorry, dude. Bulgaria, huh? So he's not still in the states?"

"Honestly, I don't know. We're kind of grasping at straws in the lead department. But there was a hydra cell here last week and this week they're a nasty pink stain on the rug, so. If it wasn't him, I'd still like to shake whoever's hand, you know?"

"I hear that. Good luck, man."

"Thanks. So... what did you need?"

"I uh... you know what, it can wait. You get back to sleep." 

"If you say so..."

Bulgaria. Huh. That's kind of a long ways from the Brooklyn IKEA. 

Maybe he got a ticket to Sofa instead of Sofia and just rolled with it.

Heh. Sofa. Sofia. Clint is on _fire_.

But the arm. Guy had a metal arm. It has to be him, right? 

So why didn't he tell Sam that?

Because it's crazy talk, Clint. You saw him for like two seconds and it could have been anyone. And even if it was him, he'll be long gone by now. Clint just needs to take a nap, look up the IKEA floorplan online and print it out, and then get. his. shelves. And then assemble them. He can defuse a bomb blindfolded in handcuffs; he can figure out some damned IKEA instructions. Probably.

This is doable. It's so doable it's practically done! He is so getting a World's Best Landlord mug when this is all over.

=====

The next night, Clint has a long nap before heading out. No mixed up soviet identities for him tonight, no sir, he is sharp. On the ball. In the ball pit. 

He hesitates for a minute, but fuck, yeah, that's still a great idea.

A few ball pit shark attacks later, he's heading for the warehouse, whose door is another 20 feet down from the employee break room's door, which he warily tiptoes past without opening. Yeah, here we go! 

Tonight he has a secret weapon. He has downloaded the IKEA store app. Which has a map. He zeroes in on his prey: aisle 19, side B, part 791.891.50 DARK GRAY EKET.

"It’s edginess in a box!" gushes the app. "Create an asymmetric or unexpected storage solution and fill it with your things. Stack and combine as you please. Fits in any space and has infinite possibilities." 

Infinite possibilities is a few too many possibilities if you ask Clint. The instructions were like a freaking choose your own adventure book, only with no words, just arrows and ambiguous cartoon diagrams. Normally arrows are firmly in his comfort zone, but these ones—

CLINT. Head in the game. He already has three quarters of the EKET assembled at home, he's committed, he just needs a couple teeny weeny replacement parts—he shoulders a second 40-kilogram box—and he's golden. Okay, what's next. Screws and pegs for BILLY. Heh, that BILLY, he's a kinky dude. Uh, let's see. Self-select section B, adjacent to the returns desk. 

He grabs a double handful of every kind of screw, bolt, nut, and peg in the self-select tubs, just on spec, and tucks them away neatly, sort of, in a hip quiver. He sets down the boxes for a second to disarm the alarm for the nearest exit. Bingo, first try! He stealths off into the night. Like the motherfucking spy he is. Aw yeah, landlord of the year, baby.

=====

...he left the boxes next to the alarm panel. Shit, shit, shit.

Oh god, Natasha is going to keel over laughing if she finds out. 

If? _When._ She probably already knows. There's probably already a youtube channel. There's—

No, no, this is beneath her. Maybe. Just go with that, Clint.

He finishes up the BILLY assembly. He thinks maybe some of the pegs were for a different... shelf family? But who cares, they keep the shelves from falling down, it doesn't matter what weird branch of the Swedish family tree they were supposed to be for. He picks up the tarp he laid down in the living room for assembly session two and funnels all the leftover brackets and bolts and so forth into a huge jar with a satisfying clanking sound. It looks like something you might see in the background of a workshop on an HGTV show. Hah! Who has an explosion in their living room NOW, Natasha?

The Allen wrench stuck in a ceiling tile drops down on to the floor, chipping a divot out of the laminate. 

Whatever. Those HGTV wankers probably have that happen all the time, it just gets edited out.

Okay, back to EKET. He found the boxes once, he can find them again, and this time he writes TAKE EKET HOME on the palm of each hand in sharpie, just in case. He pauses, then adds WASH THIS OFF in smaller print underneath. No sense giving Nat extra ammo if he doesn't have to. Except literally. Literally arming Nat to the teeth has saved his ass on more than one occasion.

Getting in is almost a routine at this point. Parking lot, ventilation grate, alarm grid B, quick dip in the ball pit, warehouse, quick check of the app—are those purple bath mats? Oh my god, there's like a whole purple _display_. What time is it? Ah, three AM, he's got so much time.

Clint dekes to the right to the glorious purple promised land. Textiles, you saucy department! There are shower curtains, throw pillows, duvet covers... 

Clint stops short. There is a king-sized bed with a royal purple duvet, lilac sheets, dark gray bed frame with purple clamp-on reading lights, and a night stand with a fake alarm clock and a fake copy of The Color Purple.

Clint is on a mission here, but he's not made of _stone._ He sets his phone alarm for 90 minutes and dives in for the most luscious purple nap anyone has ever taken. 

He dreams of plums.

He wakes up tied to a rolling office chair in Business Furniture. Aw, purple bed, no.

He's not very firmly tied up; just enough to keep him upright while he napped. He slips free of the blue twine easily enough and shakes his arms to get circulation flowing again. The twine has left marks on his biceps and it's... kinda hot. IKEA, swedish for bondage. He gets halfway into a good daydream about being tied to a UTÅKER by a shadowy yet sexy figure when he realizes he doesn't know how much time he lost and he should probably get out of here. He scrambles for his phone... aw, phone, no. Whoever tied him up has taken his phone. He casts around for a clock in the displays, but they're all made of cardboard here. He nearly trips over a stack of boxes as he is searching, catching himself just in time. A stack of... EKET boxes? Two somewhat battered boxes of good ol' part 791.891.50 DARK GRAY EKET are piled neatly next to the chair he was tied to. On top of them is his phone. What the hell is going on here? Did a rogue concierge swing by to tie him up?

He picks up his phone and swipes it on. The time is... oh good, he still has an hour before the store opens. The notepad app is open, and a note he didn't write is displayed:

**Stop coming here.**

His eyes widen. Shit, are the IKEA cops really this serious about his ban? No, no, think, Clint. Could this be...?

A sense memory of the taste of macaroni and cheese floods his mind.

But why would...

He shakes his head and scrubs his hand through his hair. You can get bed head from sleeping tied up in a chair, it turns out. He catches a glimpse of his palm as he does this. TAKE EKET HOME. Right! Right. He hefts the two boxes and strides to the exit, this time disabling the alarm with one hand while the other stays in firm contact with the EKET twins, and makes his way home.

It's not till he gets there that he realizes that whoever his... captor? Bondage pal? Interior decorator? ...That whoever it was who left the note has disabled the perma-capslock on his phone. Hey, thanks creepy IKEA person! Well maybe not that creepy. Clint _was_ the one breaking in. Technically. 

It's not until the next morning that he subsequently realizes that they've somehow reset the system font to Comic Sans. The poker app cheerfully pops up a notification in Comic Sans confirming the purchase of another $9.95 1000 PREMIUM CHIPS package.

Clint groans. He is going to be hearing about this from Natasha for the rest of his natural life.

=====

With five days left, the deadline adrenaline isn't enough to overcome the urge to procrastinate his second go at putting EKET together. He idly thumbs through the instructions again, but his mind keeps wandering back to the person who tied him up in blue twine like he was a parcel on a roof rack. Which is... hotter than any phrase that includes "roof rack" has any right to be.

Was it... could it actually be the Winter Soldier? 

It was definitely someone else who shouldn't be there. Clint's recon was a little rushed, but he's pretty sure the IKEA doesn't have any kind of regular night security presence other than the automated alarm system. And there can't be that many IKEA squatters, can there? It's just got to be the person he saw on his first ninja furniture acquisition mission.

Why the hell would the Soldier, cold war legend, badass to end all badasses, be living in a New York city IKEA? 

Of course, why would anyone be living in a New York city IKEA? Clint has to admit that none of the other options are actually any less bizarre. And he's got to be somewhere, right? If he's avoiding Steve—and he has been, from what Sam says—then going to ground in Brooklyn, right under his nose, makes a weird kind of sense. Steve's barely been home two days running this last year. Clint came over to his new place in Brooklyn, a sweet warehouse conversion that Sharon dug out of SHIELD's fragmented holdings in the chaos after DC, to borrow a crowbar—look, it's a long boring story and anyone could accidentally nail their front door shut—and Steve still wasn't all the way unpacked, despite only having like three whole boxes of stuff when he moved. The Soldier could probably be living _in_ Steve's apartment and not get caught, Steve was out of town so much; so the Brooklyn IKEA is practically the himalayas.

Clint rubs his head idly, trying to decide if that was a brilliant insight or just his usual circus logic, twisting ideas in pretzels without realizing he's doing anything odd. 

Well. Only one way to find out. Ask the guy.

=====

A false mustache and a rumpled business suit aren't exactly Clint's finest moment in spycraft, but the disguise seems to be enough to fool the bored IKEA employees presumably in charge of enforcing his lifetime ban based on a grainy security camera image capture.

He prowls through the showroom, pretending to look interested in bins of impulse-purchase items whenever an IKEA Coworker (tm) gets too close, glancing from time to time at the map in his IKEA app. If this is the Soldier's current base of operations, he has to have a daytime hide. Now, if Clint were holed up here for the day and wanted to stay under the radar, where would he... aha.

Clint makes his way casually to a corner of Living Rooms where two adjacent displays form a very un-IKEA-like dead space, a 10'x10' box blocked from easy access to the nearest employee-only hallway by an HVAC shaft in an awkward place. Hah! Clint is scanning the ceiling, trying to decide the best place to get into the vents without being seen when he's suddenly grabbed from behind and dragged into a back hall.

Any doubts about the identity of the IKEA moleman are washed away by the metal hand immobilizing Clint's jaw, keeping him from crying out during his abrupt relocation. There aren't a lot of people who could manhandle him so easily; Clint's not just strong, he's bendy, and it takes either incredible brute force or advanced martial arts prowess to keep Clint contained if he doesn't want to be. Actually forget "either," it takes both. Circus times archery to the power of special agent is a pretty wicked combination to contend with. 

Steve is one of those people. Apparently the Winter Soldier is another. 

The Winter Soldier. Who has spent this time marching them into a janitorial closet and is now holding forth in an angry, hushed voice. Uh. Clint should probably be paying attention to this.

"Well? The hell are you playing at, Avenger?"

"Uh. Sorry. I missed the first part?"

The Soldier clenches his jaw and tightens his grip on Clint's shoulder, pressing him into the wall.

"You think this is a game for me?"

"No! No sir! I just have a really short attention span!" Oh my god, why is this so hot? 

The Soldier stares at him.

Clint stares back.

The Soldier's stare intensifies.

"Wow, that was cool! Can you do that again?"

The Soldier's face backs off Murder setting 9.9 to more like... Murder 7.6? Hmm, should this be like, the Richter scale, or a more linear...

"I'm not going to murder anyone!" hisses the Soldier.

Oops. Apparently Clint said that part out loud.

"Yes, you—are you actually this vapid?"

Aaaaand that part. Shit. 

Clint looks remorseful. "I kind of am, yeah. Sorry."

The Soldier looks taken aback by this apparently heartfelt confession. He drops his grip on Clint's shoulders and frowns. Clint shakes out his shoulder muscles. Mmm, that's gonna bruise up real nice, a hand print on each side.

Oh fuck, he didn't say that out loud too, did he?

He winces and looks warily at the Soldier. Whew, okay, no.

"I asked. Why are you hunting me."

"Oh! I'm not. Or. Well I kind of am. But I wasn't?"

"I... what? Which one?"

"Both?"

He blinks at Clint. "Both? You can't be both."

"Well I am! Sometimes!" Clint protests. "Look, I'm an unreliable narrator. It's _extremely fashionable._"

The Soldier comes to a full stop for a moment, processing this. He eventually gives up and changes tack.

"Tell me everything you've told Steve. Everything. No..." he waves his hand "...unreliable whatever." He shrugs one shoulder and his metal arm shivers, the plates rippling menacingly somehow. Jesus Christ. Clint is not sure if this is a nightmare or a wet dream but either way, holy shit.

His eyes lazily trace up the metal arm, to the handsome face which is... staring at him expectantly. Oh! Right!

"Nothing! I haven't told Steve anything."

The Soldier looks skeptical with a 40% chance of angry precipitation.

"No, I'm serious! I wasn't even... I didn't know it was you, for sure."

"Is that why you're here?"

"NO! Well, yes. But also I. I HAVE SHELVES."

The Soldier's face shuts down in perplexity. "You... have shelves."

"What! Avengers need furniture too. I'm a landlord."

"You're... a landlord. You're. What does that. What does that even."

He trails off. His face is looking less and less on board with Clint's contributions to consensus reality.

"I am! I need to fix some shelves. In one of my tenants' apartments. It kind of got trashed in, well, there were these robots, and—"

The Soldier actually seems soothed a bit by this conversational left turn. Clint guesses after all the epic Hydra... stuff... having the plot return to a bizarre supervillain narrative must be, if not comforting, at least familiar.

"...so I needed to buy new cabinets and stuff."

"But why. At night. Why did you come in the middle of the night."

Clint turns red. "Well. Uh."

The Soldier raises an eyebrow.

"I came in the day at first, but then I. Uh. I kind of got banned."

His other eyebrow joins in. "Banned."

"I uh. I sort of accidentally broke one of the kitchen design computers. On purpose. It was. I got. I was angry, and things kinda. Yeah."

Clint is scuffing the toe of one shoe on the linoleum, feeling like an eight-year-old being dressed down by the principal. Or how he imagines one would feel. When Clint was actually eight, he was shovelling elephant shit at Carson's Carnival.

But now the Soldier's face actually looks... gentle, somehow. The Winter Fucking Soldier is looking at him pityingly. "Yeah, okay."

Clint blinks. "Okay?"

The Soldier makes a gruff noise. "Those kitchen computers. Are evil."

Clint looks up, delighted. "I know, right?!"

He suddenly seems to remember he's supposed to be interrogating Clint, not commiserating with him. "This was all about furniture? You really haven't told Rogers anything?"

"Really! Honest!"

The Soldier presses his metal hand to one temple and closes his eyes, looking pained. "And are you going to tell him now?"

"I'm guessing you want me to say... no?"

He opens his eyes and fixes Clint with a cold glare. Murder 8.2 and rising.

"I can say no! Promise! Only..."

"Only what."

"Why are you hiding from Steve?" Clint blurts out. "I mean it's none of my business! But. Isn't he. I mean, aren't you guys. Um. On the same side? Against Hydra and all?" Right? God, he wishes he had paid more attention to what Nat told him about what went down in DC. But he vaguely remembers that the Winter Soldier saved Steve. From... something. For some... reason?

The Soldier looks at the corner of the room and resettles his jaw grimly. "I'm not him. I'm not the guy he thinks I am."

And Clint... Clint knows that feeling. Oh god does he ever. 

"Okay."

"What's okay."

"Okay, I won't tell Steve."

"That's it? Just like that, you won't tell Steve?"

"You're a grown-up, you can. I mean. I don't think that Steve would. But. You get to decide, you know?"

The Soldier narrows his eyes, sorting through this collection of sentence fragments. 

"Seriously! I promise. I get where you're coming from. I can keep my mouth shut."

The soldier's mouth twitches. But apparently he can keep his mouth shut too; it doesn't quite make it to a smile.

He frowns again. "So you're here for furniture reasons."

"Yes!"

"But you took home your shelves yesterday."

"Oh. Uh. Yeah. Yeah I got my stuff."

The Soldier swaps Murder 8.2 for Are You Fucking With Me 9.3. "Then why. Are. You. Here."

"Maybe I just wanted lunch!"

"You came. To IKEA. For _lunch._"

"I could have!"

The Soldier covers his face with both hands. He takes a deep breath. He puffs it out slowly.

"You are..." He shakes his head. "You are too ridiculous to be messing with me."

He turns and walks out of the closet. Clint follows him, hastily pressing his false mustache, which had drooped in the face of all the terror sweat Clint had produced in the last ten minutes, back into place. 

The Soldier pauses at a door back into the showroom, this one opening on to the intersection of Bathrooms and Children's Storage Solutions. He looks both ways and slips out, Clint hot on his tail.

Soldier steps to the side, and arrests Clint's forward progress with a firm, somewhat menacing hand on his shoulder. Clint bites his lip at the pleasant ache of pressure on the bruises forming up there from before, eyes closing involuntarily. The Soldier notices and drops his hand, eyes wide.

"Uh," Clint explains.

"Just. Just go away. You say nothing to Steve."

"I won't!"

"And you don't. Come back."

"Aw, how come?"

The Soldier's face locks up, disbelief and irritation waging a lively skirmish in his expression. Okay, maybe Clint went too far there.

"Fine, fine, whatever! I'm gone! I never saw you!"

His face relaxes into something in the That's More Like It family. 

Clint steps backward and waves awkwardly. "Right! Uh. If you need me, I'll be eating gravad lax in the cafeteria."

The Soldier turns pale at this. He shakes his head slowly, looking disturbed.

Clint tilts his head, confused. "What? What did I say?"

"Gravad lax."

Is this a code? Clint is missing something here. "What... about it?"

"I just. I know things. About the kitchen."

"Uh... bad things?"

"Do you want e.Coli?"

"I... don't?"

"Then why are we talking about gravad lax."

Clint throws up his hands. "I don't know!"

The Soldier leans in close, cupping a hand over Clint's ear and whispering. "Order the meatballs."

Clint shivers. That voice, low and rough, is doing things to him. Only... hang on. "The meatballs?" _Is_ this a code? Clint is so, so lost.

"SHHHH!"

Clint jumps. "Fuck, man, that was right in my hearing aid! That hurts!"

The Soldier looks taken aback. "Oh. I. I didn't..."

Clint raises his hands placatingly. "You're fine, just... don't do that again."

He nods, then jerks his head up suddenly, looking beyond Clint's shoulder. He picks up a BOLMEN toilet brush, $1.59, and chucks it at something behind Clint.

Clint whips around to see it land in a stack of disturbing but ultimately non-threatening Swedish plush toys. What the hell? 

When he turns back, the Winter Soldier is gone. 

Goddamnit. Outsmarted by a toilet brush. That's harsh.

It wasn't even one of the good $6.99 ENUDDEN ones. 

=====

Clint has gravad lax for lunch, of course. Ain't no assassin gonna tell Clint what he can't do. He follows it with coffee and a weird-looking green pastry that smells like amaretto and tastes delicious. Hell, he should come to IKEA for lunch on purpose some time.

=====

Clint spends the next 48 hours in agony, puking and shitting by turns. He can't keep _water_ down during the first day. 

Gravad lax was not a code. The Winter Soldier was just being nice and Clint is an idiot and oh god when will this stop.

=====

By the time Clint is back on solid food, he has three days left to finish up at Aimee's. He avoids eye contact with the EKET ecosystem sprawled around his living room and moves the BILLYs and the blessedly easy to assemble VADHOLMA over to her place instead. He then spends a tense evening spreading individual pages of the EKET instruction manual out on the floor, hoping to find a combination that makes sense, before giving up and suiting up in black tac gear. He's halfway to the IKEA before he realizes what he's doing and he... he doesn't stop. 

Clint tries very hard not to examine his motives. He has all the parts he needs. He's solved the mystery of the IKEA hermit. He... He's here to... to... what?

He walks past the ball pit without stopping. He gets to the employee break room door and presses an ear to it, and is rewarded with the quiet noise of footsteps, a drawer opening and closing...

Is he really doing this? Yeah, he's doing this.

He knocks.

The noise inside stops.

After a long pause, he knocks again, this time calling out "You were right!"

The footsteps resume. The door swings open, revealing the Winter Soldier, mouth agape, his expression equal parts baffled and furious.

Clint feels about as poleaxed as the Soldier looks, but his mouth goes on ahead of him. "About the fish! You were right! I'm sorry I doubted you!" 

"What the hell do you want with me?" he snarls.

"I... uh." What the hell DOES Clint want? Clint has no fucking idea.

The Soldier gets right up in Clint's face and growls. "Leave. Me. ALONE."

Clint kisses him.

The Soldier freezes. Clint backs off. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck what did he do that for he is going to be murdered now.

Clint opens his mouth, desperately wanting to explain his way out of this somehow, but nothing comes out.

The Soldier stares at him, horrified, for a long moment.

The Soldier... grabs Clint's shirt with his metal hand, hauls him in, and kisses him back. 

It's Clint's turn to freeze, but his kissing autopilot is a _lot_ more on the ball than the Soldier's, and he's giving as good as he gets now. The Soldier's other hand wanders up to card through Clint's hair. Clint's shoulders untense and he sighs, then groans as the Soldier grips his hair and pulls a little. Fuck yeah.

Clint eventually, reluctantly, pulls back to take a breath, and reality revs back into gear unpleasantly. They look at each other in mutual shock. 

The Soldier recovers first, and he turns and runs, flat out runs, abandoning his pasta yet again. Poor guy, carbs are just not in the cards for him this week.

Clint, dazed, doesn't follow.

His hand drifts up to his lips. What did... What just happened?

He picks up the abandoned macaroni, absentmindedly cuddling it as he leaves the store.

=====

"Naaaat I need your help."

Natasha steps into Clint's apartment. "Fine, give me the phone," she says, directing a really pro-grade side-eye at his histrionics.

"No, not with my phone! I fixed my phone."

Natasha looks over at Clint sharply at this. "You. Fixed your phone. Your phone that has been fucked up for months."

Clint looks indignant. "Look, I might not be as much of a wizard hacker as you..."

She crosses her arms. "Who fixed it for you."

Clint clutches his phone to his chest indignantly. "Who says anyone fixed it for me!"

Nat looks at him flatly. Clint deflates. "Okay well that part is actually what I need help with."

Nat settles down on the sofa and extends a hand. "Tell me about it while I fix your phone."

"My phone is fixed! I just told you. My caps is unlocked."

"No, I mean I'll take the poker app off."

Clint's jaw drops. "HOW DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT."

Natasha peers at him disdainfully. 

Clint sullenly hands over his phone. "...thank you."

Natasha pats his shoulder reassuringly. "Attaboy. Now," she says, unlocking his phone and opening a... did he know his phone had a command line? "Tell me about your capslocksmith."

"Heh. Capslocksmith."

"You can be jealous of my puns later. Now dish."

Clint slumps on the sofa. "I... met someone? At IKEA. And he... I mean we..."

Nat sits up, eyes sparkling, never a good sign. "Oh Clint. Did you go looking for furniture and find true love instead?"

Clint rolls his eyes.

Nat continues. "Okay, not love. Hmm. Sex? Did you find raw, animal sex at the IKEA?"

"No! God. Not yet any—NO."

"Ha!" Natasha sits up further, looking like she just won the lottery. 

"It's just... he's kind of..." Clint sighs heavily. "I am confused, terrified, and aroused."

"You know, you're the third man this week to say that to me?"

Clint sticks out his tongue.

"Okay, so what's the big problem with this guy? Usually ill-advised trysts are pretty solidly in your wheelhouse."

"I know! Also, that was super mean." Nat waves a hand at him vaguely, acknowledging this assessment without refuting it. "But this guy is... kind of next-level ill-advised?"

"I'm intrigued."

"I'm in trouble."

"Well? Who is he? Someone I know?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why not."

"I... just can't. It would be bad."

Nat gives him a Look. "I'm going to find out anyway."

Clint looks at her pleadingly.

Natasha hums and looks out the window at nothing in particular. "Любовь зла, полюбишь и козла"

Clint frowns. "A goat? He's not a goat."

"It's a metaphor."

"It's not a very helpful one!" 

Natasha shrugs. "In Soviet Russia we only had one metaphor to share among a dozen hungry children. You spoiled western dogs could never understand." 

Clint flops back on the couch. "I should have gone to Bruce." 

"Bruce! What does he know about love?" 

"Well he never tells me I'm a goat, for one thing." Clint pauses. "Wait, why am I asking any of you about love. We might as well call the Avengers the FOREVERALONE SQUAD."

Natasha wrinkles her nose. "Thor had a girlfriend. And Tony!"

"Thor had Tony?"

"No, I mean Tony als—huh."

"You're picturing it too."

"I hate you."

"I hated you first."

"I hate you better."

Clint sinks further into the sofa, burying his head under a pillow. "You probably do. I'm hopeless."

Natasha softens, which Clint should really be more concerned about. "Look. Why were you in IKEA in the first place."

"Huh? To finish getting parts for Aimee's apartment's... everything."

"Are you done fixing her everything yet?"

"No...."

"Well why don't you focus on that first. Maybe your goat problem will seem easier when you're not stressing about furniture."

"He's not a—" Clint trails off, looking over at Natasha, whose eyes are dancing. He pouts and pokes her arm. "Brat."

"Dope," she responds, fondly. "Here's your phone back. Minus your shameful little gambling problem."

"I don't have a gambling problem!"

"Mm, it must have been the goat."

"HE'S NOT A GOAT!"

"So you keep telling me."

"Look, he's.... can you keep a secret?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"...okay, stupid question."

"What's your goat's secret."

"HE'S NOT—the wintersoldier"

"He's not a goat or the Winter Soldier, great, that only leaves 4 billion possibilities. What about Batman. Is he Batman?"

"Batman's not real, you know that, right?"

"But goats are real, Clint." She leans in close. "Very, very real."

Clint gulps. "He's the... he might be. He's the Winter Soldier. Is the problem."

Natasha sits back, genuinely shocked. "Are you being serious with me right now?"

Clint nods pathetically.

"You met the Winter Soldier at _IKEA?_"

"Well you met him in DC, right? He gets around!"

"Actually, I met him in Odessa."

"At an IKEA?"

Natasha pinches the bridge of her nose. "Yes, Clint. At an IKEA. I was in the Ukraine _buying throw pillows._" 

"Really?"

Natasha stares at him.

"Um. I bet they were great. The best throw pillows. I'm... shutting up now."

Natasha sighs. "Did you really meet the Winter Soldier at IKEA? What was he doing at an IKEA?"

Clint flops his head back, covering his eyes. "Among other things? Kissing me."

Natasha blinks. 

Clint peeks out from under his hand. "What, no goat-kissing jokes?"

"No, not right now," she says distantly, pulling out her phone and typing something intently. "Listen, I have to go."

"Nat? What am I supposed to do?"

"I told you. Fix Aimee's apartment."

"But—"

But she's already gone. Shit. Now what?

=====

Lacking any better ideas, Clint turns his attention back to EKET. Well, first he rewatches the season finale of Dog Cops. But then it's right down to EKET business.

EKET. That wily bastard.

The individual instruction manual pages, arranged in a summoning circle—god, Barton, what were you trying to do there?—offer no more insight than they did yesterday, or when they were still assembled in order, for that matter. Clint sweeps them into a corner with his foot and locks eyes with the tantalizingly close to assembled yet still structurally unsound stack of EKET parts. He's got two more days, a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark out, and—no, no, that's the Blues Brothers. He's got two more days, a screwdriver, a set of parts for a whole extra EKET setup, and some of the world's most sophisticated spy training and experience. He's clever. He's subtle. He's strong. He's resourceful. He's _smarter than this goddamn shelf._ Hit it.

Why did Nat dash out like that, anyway? Was it insensitive of him to talk about the Winter Soldier with her? He knows some serious shit went down in DC, and they'd had a few epic vodka binges to weather the period where the internet was trawling through all the dark secrets of Natasha's past that were released with the SHIELD data dump. And the dark secrets of his own past, Clint supposes, but people already thought of him as the fuck-up Avenger, so it wasn't really much of a blow. But he and Natasha were buds, they were honest with each other. She'd have told him to shut the hell up if that was the problem, right? 

Probably?

He stands back from the shelving unit to examine his progress critically. That door should... probably not open from the top? Hmm. That's just like, shelving tradition, though, right? Aimee's like, an artist. Well a bicycle messenger, but. This kind of avant-garde décor is practically an upgrade. And he won't even charge extra rent!

Clint is distracted from this fanciful trip to Rationalization City by a series of loud beeps in his right ear. Ow, Christ that's loud. He pulls off his right hearing aid and tosses it on the table, rubbing his ear. Was the battery dying? On only one side? Oh, hang on. He picks up his phone, which, sure enough, is vibrating. He must have left it in silent mode. He's still not used to the weird bluetooth sex his aids have with his phone since Tony's latest unasked-for upgrade. Not that the upgrades are unwelcome. Clint's hard on equipment of all kinds, and having someone give him new phones and hearing aids on the regular is pretty damned handy. But they don't always come with an instruction manual.

He looks over at the remains of the EKET manual. Yeahhhh maybe Tony made the right call in not trusting him with an instruction manual.

Barton. Phone. Ringing. Right! Fuck.

Whoever it is is apparently very patient, because it must be like the 14th ring when he finally picks up.

"Yello?"

"Hawkeye?"

"Speaking."

"It's Steve Rogers."

"Steve! Hi. How's uh. Bulgaria?"

"Bulgaria? Oh, huh. Bulgaria was last week, we're in—well, that's not important. Listen. Nat says you've seen Bucky?!"

"I've seen what?"

"Bucky! Bucky Barnes." Steve sounds impatient. In other news, water is wet. "She said you had a run in with him."

"Uh... I did? Isn't he... I mean didn't he, like, die back in..." 

"Die? No, he—didn't Natasha tell—look, the Winter Soldier? You saw the Winter Soldier?"

"Oh!" Oh!

Wait, _Bucky?_

Clint casts his mind back. Natasha had told him a _lot_ of things after DC, and he'd been very, very drunk for quite a bit of it. She'd needed comfort! He's a good pal. A good, drunk pal. A good, drunk pal whose vodka game is strong but definitely not Black Widow level. Had she mentioned that the Winter Soldier was... was... 

"Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier?!"

"Uh, yes? Why do you think Sam and I have been—look, have you seen him?"

"I," Clint manages. Why is it suddenly so hard to say yes? 

"You...." says Steve, expectantly. 

Clint's mind is going double speed and getting nowhere. Sometimes it feels like there's just a fidget spinner up there. Bucky Barnes?! 

CLINT HAS BEEN MAKING OUT WITH BUCKY BARNES.

Fuck, history class suddenly feels a lot more inter—

"Hawkeye? Are you there?"

"Uh, yes!"

"Yes you're there, or yes you've seen him?"

"Uh. Both I guess?"

"Listen to me. This is very important. Where did you see him?"

Come on Clint, it's Steve. He is literally the most trustworthy guy on the planet. Just say it. 

Just... 

Say...

"Sweden!" he blurts out. What?

"What?" Yeah, good question, man.

"When were you in Sweden?"

"Uh..."

"Sorry, nevermind, it's probably classified, I should know better. My apologies."

"Yeah, uh, about—"

"Hey, thanks for the intel. I mean it. We've had kind of a dry spell lately. This means a lot to me. I owe you one, Hawkeye."

"It's Clint. You can call me... look, Steve—"

"Clint, then. Thanks again." 

"Bu—" aaaand he's talking to dead air. 

He... maybe just sent Captain America to Sweden by accident? This looks bad. He should call back. Or at least text Sam or something. 

He doesn't, though. He shakes his head when he finds he's been staring at the phone's empty screen for he's not sure how long. He dials Natasha.

"Pamela's Pancake Palace, Pamela speaking."

"Hi Pamela, put me through to my gossipping double-crossing best friend?"

Silence. Shoot, maybe that was a bit harsh.

"Uh. Sorry. Nat?"

Nat's voice is at a good temperature to freeze a man for seventy years. "What is that supposed to mean, Clint."

"I just got an interesting call from Steve. Asking about... my goat."

Silence. 

Silence taking a pregnancy test. 

Confirmed pregnant silence.

"Is there... some reason he would know? About my goat?"

There's a heavy sigh. "God, he's such an idiot. I told him—"

"You told him what?!"

"I told him not to call you, I was going to track down the lead myself."

"And were you going to tell me that it was Bucky Fucking Barnes at any point?!"

"What?"

"Steve! Just said that! That the Winter Soldier—"

"...is Bucky Barnes, yes. Clint, have you listened to literally anything I've said in the last six months?"

"Ye-es? Mostly?" 

"So no doubt you recall," she says, dangerously patient, "...as it was a central part of the whole narrative around DC and SHIELD going down, the shocking discovery that the Winter Soldier was in fact—"

"Look, we were drinking a lot when we discussed that!"

"Pfft. It wasn't that much."

"Not all of us are Russian."

"Well, nobody's perfect." Natasha sighs and continues. "Yes, the Winter Soldier is Bucky Barnes. I'm sorry Steve called you. He's an idiot. I seem to collect idiot friends."

"I asked if you could keep a secret!" Clint whines. Is he whining? Okay, yeah, that was whining. He already lost the moral high ground somewhere between five minutes and six months ago, apparently.

"And did I answer?"

"Well you _implied_ that—"

"Clint. It's his best friend. I couldn't just sit on it. I didn't tell him what you were doing together, though."

"Oh. Well, that's good. I think." Mollified, Clint scrambles to remember what he was hoping to get out of confronting Natasha in the first place. If anything. It's _Natasha_. There was never a world where he was going to come out on top here.

"I am sorry, for what it's worth. I should have remembered that you were both idiots."

"Thanks, that—hey!"

"What did he ask?"

What DID he ask? Oh. Oh shit. 

"Clint?"

"He asked. Uh."

"...Clinton?"

Clint shudders. "Don't call me that."

"I'll stop if you spit it out. What. Did. He. Ask."

"He asked where I saw him. And I told him, um. I told him..."

"You told him..."

"I think I accidentally sent him to Sweden?"

There's a long pause, broken by Natasha cackling with glee.

"Oh my god. You sent him to Sweden."

"I wasn't lying! Exactly! He just hung up before—"

"No, no, this is perfect. Sweden. Serves him right."

"It... does?"

"He told me he wasn't going to contact you or go off half-cocked before I got him more information. Hah. Mr. I'm Always Honest."

"Ha ha... uh... ha?"

"Trust me, it's hilarious."

"...okay."

"If he calls back, just tell him to call me. I'll handle Steve."

"What if he's..."

"If he's angry—"

"WHEN he's angry," corrects Clint.

"When he's inevitably angry, he can explain why he lied to his dear friend and confidential informant, me."

"Damn, can I sell tickets?"

"If I get a cut."

"Deal." He was joking, but wow, maybe he should. In his mind he's already setting up a popcorn booth. You can take the boy out of the circus, but you—hang on. "Uh. Are you?"

"Am I what."

"His... dear friend?"

Natasha sees right through him, as usual. "Oh, honey, you're still my favourite."

"Okay," says Clint in a small voice. "Okay."

"We got to know each other while we were on the run from Hydra. He's... a friend. Now."

"And are you..."

"Goats are for children, Clint."

"...right." This shouldn't be that comforting. He and Nat have never been... it's none of his... "Wait, does that mean you think I'm a child?"

"So he IS a goat."

"Gahhhh forget I said anything."

"Already for-goat-ten."

"Arrrrrrrrgh"

"You're just jealous you didn't think of it."

"...maybe."

"Clint. I would have told you. If Steve and I were."

"Yeah?"

"Hey. Of course I would. You're still my best friend."

"Aw. Nat. You don't have—"

"In fact, maybe I already told you, and you forgot, because you hold your vodka like a 105lb sorority girl."

"Now, that's not fair!"

"Isn't it?"

"You didn't though, right?"

"I didn't."

"...thanks." 

And because they really are best friends, she knows to call him out on "So are we done with the emotions part of the conversation and into the Clint is avoiding putting furniture together part?"

"Oh that part started like half an hour ag—" aaaaaand Nat has hung up.

Clint looks over at the EKET disaster. Yeahhhhh that door's definitely messed up, not avant-garde. He picks up a screwdriver half-heartedly, then sets it back down on the table next to his right hearing aid. He's still got a couple days. Better sleep on the problem. Yeah. That's the smart thing, really.

Steve'll probably like Stockholm, anyway! He's totally a socialist.

God, Clint can't get unconscious fast enough, this day deserves to be over.

=====

Clint wakes up a few hours later to a soft clanking sound in his left ear. He paws at it sleepily. Oh. He left his aids in. Blech, now his ear is gonna be all itchy and greasy all day. His... ear? He pokes the other ear and finds it empty. Ohhhh that's right, he probably left it on the table from when the phone rang yesterday.

Wait.

That means this clanking is coming from... 

He's up and has an arrow nocked before his half-asleep brain finishes the thought; he may be slow on the uptake, but his reflexes are pretty hot shit. The faint metal on metal sounds pause for a moment, and... is that someone swearing? In Russian? Is Nat here? It wouldn't be the first time she randomly dropped by. He's never given her a key, but only because it would be professionally insulting to imply she needed one. He lets the bow swing down to the ground, standing down from red alert. The clanking starts up again. What the hell is she doing?

He gets to the entrance to the living room and swings the bow and arrow right the heck back up again, because:

Natasha is not in his living room. 

The Winter Soldier is in his living room.

The Winter Soldier is... taking apart the EKET in his living room?

"What the fuck?" summarizes Clint.

The Soldier—Bucky. Motherfucking Bucky Barnes. _Bucky_ turns around, looking surprised but also producing a gun from somewhere and drawing a bead on Clint. 

"You're awake," he says. 

"Yeah I uh... heard you." Clint gestures vaguely at the table where his other hearing aid is sitting.

Barnes takes it in with half an eye. "Huh. Smart. I missed that."

Heh. Smart. Yeah, let's go with that, it definitely wasn't a random accident.

"So uh..."

The Soldier's eyes are both 100% staring him down again. He ostentatiously flicks off the safety.

"Hey, whoah! Settle down! I just want to know why you're here. Doing... what are you doing?"

Barnes sets his jaw and stares harder. "You did it wrong."

"I... what?"

He gestures minutely with the gun. "EKET. You put it together wrong."

"Are you... IKEA-policing me?"

Stony silence.

"I mean, I think I way underestimated how serious the ban thing was if they hired you t—"

Clint doesn't finish his sentence because the Winter Soldier's tongue is in his mouth. BUCKY BARNES's tongue is in his... fuuuuuck this is great. Clint absently tosses his bow on the sofa and winds one hand in his hair, in BUCKY BARNES's hair, and lets the other stroke gently down his cheek. Did... is he still pointing a gun? Is the safety back—no, no, shut up, Clint's brain, we are BUSY.

The gun must have been holstered at some point; when they break for air there's a hand on each hip tugging him in to Barnes' body. "Thanks. For not telling Steve." he murmurs.

"No problemo! Wait, how do you know I didn't?"

The Soldier leans back to peer at him skeptically. "Really?"

Clint bristles, feeling defensive but not sure about what. "Ye-ah?"

"By... spying on you? Spying, maybe you've heard of it, _Agent Barton?_"

Clint huffs. 

"I liked the Sweden part. That had style."

Clint preens. Clint is having a hard time keeping up with what emotional display is appropriate in this conversation and why are they using their mouths for _talking_ anyway? "Uh. You're welcome?"

"So I wanted to. Say thanks."

"I like your style, too," manages Clint, ghosting his lips over Barnes' cheek. 

"I mean, the furniture. I came to fix. Your horrible furniture disaster. To say thanks."

"...oh."

The Soldier is silent and still, apparently having second thoughts about his navigation of clusterfuck etiquette. Clint scrambles to get back to the part where they're kissing instead of thinking. Kissing is awesome. Thinking is troubling, at best. "I mean, you're welcome! Very welcome." He looks down at Bucky's lips. "Sooooo welcome."

Score! They're kissing again, thank god. But his joy is short lived; at the next gasping break for air Bucky pulls back and then runs off, is out the window before Clint can even get out a "Hey!"

Hey! 

Aw, smooching, no. 

The door on the EKET, now correctly hung, swings out with a mocking whine. Yeah, screw you too, EKET.

=====

Clint has been moodily considering the EKET's door for a full day when Natasha walks in, taking a weird zig-zaggy path over to the kitchen.

"Uh... Nat? Can I help you?"

"Don't move. Stay on the sofa," she cautions quietly. Very quietly. She's activated her Avengers comm, which is still creepily hijacking his hearing aids, instead of like, speaking in a normal voice like a normal person who is normally hiding in the normal kitchen like every normal guest normally does.

Clint stays seated on the couch, but swings his head around to bust out a silent but emphatic W T F in ASL. Natasha furiously gestures for him to turn back around.

Clint sighs. "Fine! Fine." He's whispering now too, apparently it's nap time or something in his apartment.

"So. I looked in to Barnes."

Clint perks up immediately and has to ruthlessly squash down the urge to whip his head around again. "Oh! Oh! What did you find out?"

"One, you're disgustingly cute together. Two, it is physically painful to watch you flirt, you're a disaster. Three, that he is surveilling you constantly."

"Well I could have told you all those things," Clint scoffs. 

"You know he's watching you, but you can't figure out why I'm hiding in your kitchen and whispering?"

"Uh."

"Do you have a twin brother I don't know about? Who's been my partner at SHIELD for a decade? Because you're usually a little more James Bond and a little less Inspector Gadget."

Clint pouts and doesn't reply. Natasha sighs and relents. "Fine, fine, I know your pants are driving and it makes you an idiot."

Clint slides down the couch despondently. 

"Where was I. Constant surveillance. Ah! And four, I found out only those three things. Which concerns me."

"It does?"

"If he can hide his tracks from me? Yes, I find that concerning. If he's still that much in the game, I want to know what else he still has from his Hydra training."

Clint frowns, trying to untangle this for a minute. "Hang on. How do you know about Inspector Gadget?"

"I studied famous American spies in the Red Room."

This time Clint does turn his head back, to direct a withering glare at her. She gestures at him to turn around, but she's smirking while she does it. He's such a sucker for her teasing. It's nice. It's like the best parts of having Barney around, only she's not going to sell him out and leave him for dead. God knows she's had enough chances to.

"Okay so... what... should I do? Can the answer be to ignore this and keep kissing him?"

He doesn't turn his head, but he can feel her scowl from the next room anyway.

"I want to meet him."

"Haven't you already met?"

"Clint."

"Sorry! Sorry." He gestures at his pants and then mimes driving a steering wheel. Natasha snickers. "Little problem, though. I can't exactly call him up and invite him over. He appears out of nowhere and then like, runs away after five minutes."

"How did you get him to come over last time?"

"Well I—wait, you already know the answer, don't you. I didn't even tell you he came here in the first place."

"Have you ever heard of Socrates?"

Clint puts his head in his hands. "Forget it! Forget I asked. Okay, I was assembling that EKET—"

"You named it?

"No I didn't name it! That's the IKEA name. I would have come up with a way cooler name."

"You named your dog Lucky."

"WHICH IS A GREAT NAME."

"You just keep telling yourself that."

"Good thing he's with Kate this week, that would have really hurt his feelings. You're terrible."

"Professionally, yes."

Clint tries to remember how this weird walkie-talkie conversation even got started. "So you think I should, what, assemble more furniture as bait? I'm sorry to break this to you, but I actually finished it all." Well, technically the Winter Soldier did, but let's not quibble. "That's the last one."

"But I brought you a present."

Clint narrows his eyes suspiciously. "A... present. Did you."

"Look on the coffee table."

He looks over and sure enough, there's a brown paper bag. When the hell did that get there? She didn't come near him while she was stealth parkouring to the kitchen. No, no, stop trying to figure out Natasha, buddy, if you haven't done it by now it's never going to happen. He leans over and opens the bag. Inside is a paint brush and a can of purple stain.

"Aw yeah, this is gonna look sweet!" He pauses. "Wait, that shelf has a shiny plastic finish. Can you even stain that?" Clint peers at the tiny instructions in 12 languages on the side of the can. He can read 4 of them but he's no closer to knowing how the hell to use stain after doing so. 

"Stop! Don't even look at the instructions. Just do what comes naturally, Clint."

"But I have no idea how t—oh."

"I knew you'd catch on, Inspector."

=====

Clint's hands are purple, the paintbrush is purple, the newspaper he put down is purple, a significant chunk of the floor underneath the newspaper is purple, and his hearing aids were already purple but only Tony's spooky-good waterproofing has kept them from drowning in stain too.

The EKET: is not purple.

He stands back to look at his progress. He looks in the empty can. He sighs. This isn't working. To stain the shelf OR to summon Bucky. Time for drastic measures.

He reaches over to the tool box for a screwdriver and makes like he's going to use it on the still-correctly-hung cabinet door.

There's a knife at his jugular. Heh. That worked.

The knife moves a fraction of an inch closer in to his jugular. Clint squeaks. "Uh! Can you... I promise I won't..."

A metal hand pries the screwdriver out of Clint's grip and tosses it out of reach, and only then does the knife disappear. Clint breathes out dramatically. "Jesus. Okay that was hot, but..."

"What. Are you doing."

"What does it look like I'm doing? Staining it purple, my man!"

Clint has turned around now, in time to see Bucky turning purple to match everything in the apartment except the EKET.

"You can't. Stain. EKET. It's not. It's." Complete sentences seem to have dissolved in the face of Clint's fantastically poor staining technique. 

But before Bucky can come up with a better articulation of why Clint is a crime against furniture, the conversation is rescued, or at least redirected, by the appearance of Natasha, guns drawn. The knife is back in Bucky's hand again—does that arm have, like, a magnet? How did he do that?—while his other hand twitches toward the submachine gun harnessed to his back, then relaxes down, deciding not to escalate. Apparently as long as Natasha isn't threatening to disassemble furniture, it's not a code red. Or blue. Or whatever the bad shooty code is. 

"Widow."

Natasha untenses and lowers her revolvers a touch. Whether it's the recognition or the fact that he hasn't drawn on her, she seems to be reassured by something in this interaction. Bucky lowers the knife he's holding and tucks it back into a thigh holster. Natasha lowers her guns all the way and tucks them away, smiling mysteriously. "James. Сколько лет—"

"—Сколько зим, har har, very funny."

Clint tilts his head. It's nice to know that fluent Russian speakers are also perplexed by her expressions.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," she replies, but if anything her smile is wider than before. That's... good? Probably? 

"Then 6 and 5, if you mean since Odessa."

"I wasn't sure you'd remember."

Bucky's face wasn't exactly open before, but now it's got a metal shutter over bulletproof glass with a bouncer and no one has the password.

What, Clint can't use his own weird metaphors?

Natasha stares.

Bucky stares back.

Natasha stares harder. Apparently that's a thing. This right here is why she does the interrogating for Strike Team Delta. 

Bucky looks away. "I remember." He looks frustrated. "I can't forget. I can't remember my mother's face, but my missions... I can't forget."

Natasha folds up her stare briskly like it's an umbrella and returns to her default state of Enigmatic Non-committal Eyebrows. 

Clint tries to break the ensuing awkward silence. "Soooo, anyone for coffee?"

They ignore him and keep staring.

"Yeah I'll just grab one for me, then." Awkward!

While he is doctoring his java, one or the other of them must lose the staring contest, because they strike up a conversation in rapid Russian that Clint is not fluent enough to follow. A long conversation. A long... emotional conversation? At one point Natasha—Natasha!—has tears, actual tears in her eyes, and puts a hand on Bucky's shoulder. He shrugs it off and rattles off more... Russian... something something. Fuck, what are they saying? Clint's used to using his Russian to listen in on supervillains, and they always monologue nice and slow for dramatic effect.

Now Natasha starts _laughing_, clutching her belly, while Bucky turns red. She turns to Clint. "Let's do lunch next week," she says, walking out. 

What the... what... "Nat! NAT!" 

"My, awfully windy in here!" she says, breezing out, practically leaving a slime trail of amusement behind her. 

The door clicks shut and Clint looks back over at Bucky, who is... very, very red. Well that's... interesting. Verrrry interesting. A Gallup poll of Clint's dick reflects high audience engagement with the Bucky blushing show. Bucky growls and Clint realizes he's been staring.

"Uh! Sorry! Sorry, I—"

And oh thank god they're kissing again, Clint doesn't have to come up with words. He tenses up briefly when they break for air, expecting Bucky to flee again, but instead he hoists Clint up and sets him roughly on the kitchen island before resuming the kiss. Christ this is hot. Clint wraps his legs around Bucky's hips and draws him in closer. Barnes freezes for a moment and Clint begins to babble out another apology, only to be shut down with another deep, restless kiss. Barnes had just paused to take off the black leather gloves he was wearing and set them... and set them... Clint doesn't know where he set them, Clint's situational awareness is being usurped by a priority transmission from his crotch, where Bucky's newly gloveless hands are unbuttoning, unzipping, un, unh, unnnhnnhhhh okay Clint isn't wearing pants now and Clint is not totally clear on the logistics of that and Clint is not launching an investigation because Clint is busy reporting live on the scene where a surprisingly tender metal hand is stroking his dick and a surprisingly brutal flesh hand has taken hold of his ass like it's a... a... good... metaphor... for... whatever, whatever, forget being clever, Clint is OUT please leave a message and Clint will get back to you never Clint is OCCUPIED.

Clint is making a high keening noise, which is probably better than giving voice to his actual thoughts just at the moment. Bucky pauses, looking uncertain, stilling his hands but not taking them away. "Is that... good? Is that a good noise?"

RED ALERT RED ALERT VERBAL RESPONSE NEEDED

"Guhhh," Clint slurs. Fuck, no, no, try again. "Yuhhh," he tries. Bucky starts to withdraw his hands. "Unh! Stop! Come back!"

Looking amused, Barnes replaces his hands and leans in close, lips against one of Clint's ears. "So... good noise?" He strokes his cock agonizingly slowly, once, then stops. Clint is keening again. Fuuuuuh this is embarrassing. He hopes Barnes is flattered, not turned off. He feels more than hears Bucky's low chuckle in response. Okay, not turned off, that's good. "Tell you what," he says, gathering Clint's hands from... whatever they were doing, Clint doesn't even know. "I'll make this simple. Thumbs up, I keep going. Anything else, I stop." He releases Clint's hands and waits expectantly. Clint's hands panic a bit. Up, up, UP, come on! Both thumbs are up, yes! Bucky is still just standing there, though. Did he do it wrong? Wait maybe more thumbs will work. Keeping one thumb up, he scrambles with his other hand to uncurl Bucky's hands and point his thumbs up as well. Okay! Three thumbs up, no, put yours back up again... four thumbs up! That's clear, right? He peers anxiously up at Bucky, who is looking at him with... dismay? Concern? He's shaking, oh no, that's not...

Bucky loses it and goes from shaking with silent laughter to full-on cracking up, leaning his head down on Clint's shoulder for a moment while he tries to regain his composure. Clint is pretty sure this is good. Right? Good? Is it? After a moment Bucky has, finally, mastered his amusement and regained the power of speech, which is more than can be said for Clint. Or by Clint.

"All right, doll, message received," he laughs. 

Clint is dizzy all of a sudden, part relieved, part embarrassed, part blissed out. He smiles a big dopey smile at Bucky and wiggles his butt in place, like he's an excited honeybee or something. Bucky smiles back indulgently. "So. You got a bed around here somewhere?"

Clint smiles harder and nods, then stops. "Wait, haven't you been spying on me? Shouldn't you like, know?"

Bucky hefts Clint up over one shoulder and lugs him like a sack of potatoes off to the bedroom. "Well it seemed polite to ask."

Clint, upside-down, frowns. "Is this a Socrates thing again? Because Natasha—" but this sentence rapidly becomes a casualty as Clint is tossed on the bed. His shirt disappeared somewhere between the kitchen and here without him noticing and he has never been less curious about an unsolved mystery, focusing instead on watching Barnes comply with the new dress code. His socks come off, his shirt comes off, revealing the metal arm in its entirety, mmm, yes, but also DAT CHEST, DAMN. Oh no now his belt, this isn't fair, this is, this is... Bucky folds the belt over itself and snaps it briskly. Clint nearly swallows his tongue. Bucky's jeans are on the floor, and he's scooting over the bed on his knees, looking down at Clint smugly. "So," he begins. "Do you usually top, or is it okay—"

Clint, without breaking eye contact, reaches into a bedside table drawer and passes over a condom and a bottle of lube. "PLEASE, PLEASE FUCK ME."

"—if I—" Bucky trails off and looks at the proffered goodies, eyes widening. He slowly grins. "Well since you're askin' so nice, don't mind if I do." He takes the lube and condom gently from Clint's unresisting hands, and then suddenly Bucky is straddling Clint, and Clint's hands, still mostly stained purple, are over his head, pressed against the headboard in one of Bucky's large hands as the other idly flips the cap off the lube. "Now," he says, "You're going to keep these hands right where I put them. Aren't you." Clint nods eagerly, gripping his right hand in his left and pressing them both hard against the headboard to emphasize their obedient intentions. He has no idea how Bucky went from fleeing the room at a dead run after every kiss to this domineering, charismatic seduction, but he is NOT complaining. Hnnngh.

"Well, after watching you try to assemble furniture, I don't find you very intimidating."

Aw, words, no, did Clint say that out loud again? But his words are already running away without permission again: "Hey, I can be intimidating!" 

Bucky, indulgent, murmurs "Mm hmm, sure you can, sugar." 

Clint's eyes are locked on Bucky's hands, watching his fingers sloooowly tear open the condom packet, but—"I can be hella intimidating!" and somehow his ego overtakes the ocean of turned on he is and takes over the wheel for a minute; keeping his hands over his head, Clint uses his legs to snag Bucky's hips, flip them, and pin Bucky, one foot holding each of Bucky's wrists down as he perches awkwardly but securely on Bucky's hips. Take that! Circus freak beats ghost story in this fucked up game of rock paper scissors, it turns out. With both hands tied behind his back! Sorta. 

Bucky looks flabbergasted. Clint _is_ flabbergasted. What was his goal here, again? Uh. Shit.

Bucky blinks. Clint scrambles back, letting Bucky up, lacing his fingers behind his neck as submissively as possible. "Uh. Sorry! Sorry. I just."

But Bucky just grins, seeming, if anything, _more_ turned on. "Okay, slugger, you can be intimidating."

"Um. Thanks," Clint says, 50% victorious, 50% confused. "But. Uh. Could you."

Bucky leans back in, crowding Clint back down on to the bed. "Could I..."

"Couldyoubetheintimidatingonebecausethatsreallyhotand—"

Bucky pretends to think about it. "I don't know..." he says, and he's _getting up off the bed_, oh no, this is a _disaster_, Clint is—but Bucky's already on his way back; he went to the living room just long enough to get—is that duct tape? Clint was sure he was as hard as humanly possible already, but his dick levels up to _made out of actual diamond_ at the sight of Bucky ripping off a strip of the purple-speckled silver tape with his teeth. "I think you need a little reminder to stay put," he finishes, plastering Clint's crossed wrists to the headboard, adding a few extra strips for good measure. Clint could rip free easily; he's getting sweaty enough that it might even happen by accident, but oh man, the aesthetic is... is... Clint makes a noise so high that he's glad, suddenly, that Lucky isn't here to be summoned by it. Bucky seems to like it, though.

"Now. You gonna be good this time?" 

Clint nods furiously, pulling his arms back even further as a show of good faith. Bucky seems distracted for a moment by the stretch and flex of Clint's biceps. Clint twitches them a few extra times because he is nothing if not gratuitously pandering in bed. If you've got it, flaunt it, right? Bucky reaches out a finger to trace along Clint's arm, and Clint is smugly watching this play out, completely missing the way Bucky's other hand—OH GOD—the index finger of his other hand is, is—HNNNGH—is dripping with lube, trailing along Clint's perineum, circling, pressing, is INSIDE Clint OH GOD OH GOD THIS IS AMAZING. Clint _knows_ he said some of that out loud, and he gives zero fucks, because the index finger has a colleague now, and they are crooked _just so_ and—

"PLEASE PLEASE GET INSIDE ME I WANT TO COME ON YOUR DICK BUT I CAN'T WAIT AND THIS IS"

Possibly because of the months of having his phone stuck in capslock, Clint is a little shouty. But this is, is... oh oh oh Bucky takes DIRECTION this is GREAT.

Bucky, barely over the border into "intense and sexy" from "falling over laughing," has withdrawn his fingers, smoothed a condom down his cock, and before Clint really has time to react to the loss of the fingers, has pressed inside, hips snugging up against Clint's ass, head dropping down next to Clint's.

"That better?" he whispers next to Clint's ear. The harsh crackling from a whisper that close to his hearing aid is slightly painful, but in kind of a nice way, echoing the hurts/WANT MORE dichotomy of being stretched out around Bucky's cock. Every part of Clint is dialled up to 11 right now and it's all good. 

"Yuh... yes," he manages, barely. Bucky's free hand ghosts faintly over Clint's cock and that's it, we're done, Clint is coming, Clint is coming SO HARD. Bucky's smug composure transitions to gasping, wide-eyed pleasure as Clint clenches around him; he's moving in Clint now, shoulders tense, face scrunched intently, but he only holds out a few thrusts longer before he's coming too, forehead pressed to Clint's, and they tremble together for a long moment. Finally Clint's arms give up the pretense of being trapped and wiggle out of the duct tape to slide around Bucky, stroking along his spine absently.

"Hnnngnfhf," explains Clint.

"Uh huh," agrees Bucky.

"If that," puffs out Clint, "If that's what I get for assembling furniture wrong, I'm never doing it right ever again."

Bucky snickers. "Clint. I'm pretty sure you've never done it right in the first place."

Clint tries, vaguely, to pout in response, but just then Bucky slips out of his oversensitive ass and he makes a loud, embarrassing EEP sound instead. Dignity: narrowly averted.

Okay not that narrowly.

Clint is pretty sure as the host he should be untangling himself to go get a washcloth, but oh, it's so nice here, he'll just stay another minute or two...

He's not quite sound asleep when Bucky creeps out of bed, stopping part way to press a kiss to his forehead, but he's close enough not to respond with more than a vague satisfied "mmm." Bucky shakes his head fondly and disappears into the night.

=====

Clint's not exactly surprised that Bucky's gone in the morning. Clint's never been the kind of guy who gets to have breakfast the next morning with his dates. He is surprised to find a note, though.

Well sort of a note.

It's an IKEA catalogue with a STORE COPY sticker on the front, with one page dogeared. Clint flips it open to the indicated page, and it's the living room department. He frowns in confusion and is about to close the catalogue again when he notices that one of the cardboard clocks in the staged photo has new hands drawn in in black permanent marker ink. 2:47, it reads.

Well, that's clear enough. 2:47 AM, probably? Clint is still banned from the 2:47pm version of IKEA. Is Russia metric? Would it be more evil for Hydra to use a 24 hour clock or... Clint. Stop. 

Clint doesn't even pretend to work on the EKET all day as he gets dressed, undressed, redressed in a different outfit, overthinks it, gets undressed again, then dresses back up in the same outfit, then stops for a panic sandwich, and then... well, it's after midnight by the time he's finished sandwiching.

He reports to IKEA at 2:30 AM, giving himself a leisurely 17 minutes to reach the living room department. He gets there with just 30 seconds to spare; somehow even with the app to refer to AND no one else in the whole freaking warehouse, he gets lost in the display maze. Eventually he realizes that he actually passed it twice; the living room section just looks different than it has the last.. uh... seven times Clint was here this month. Christ, he needs to get a life outside of Sweden. 

The tasteful white-on-white living room set-up is still there, but the bland white sectional sofa dominating the display is now shaded by half a dozen LÖVA leaf-shaped tents from Children's Bedrooms. Under them on the couch sits a Lowe's flyer with the paint section dogeared. 

This time there's no clock. So does that mean right now, or...?

Is Clint really going to go break in to Lowe's on spec at the vague suggestion of a post-coital scavenger hunt?

...yeah, yeah he really is.

Breaking in takes a little while, he hasn't scouted it out in the past. But not that long; he is a top tier spy when his pants aren't driving, and still reasonably competent even when they are. His pants are keenly interested stakeholders at the moment for sure, but feeling sated after last night, they are willing to sit back and enjoy the ride while his brain takes the wheel.

Bucky is nowhere to be seen, to Clint's disappointment, but in the purple section of the Valspar paint chip display a pizza flyer is tucked prominently. It's one of Clint's favourite places: close to his house and open 24/7. Thank god, because so far this errand has had a lot more footwork and a lot less making out than Clint was anticipating and he's getting hungry. And this time he doesn't have any stolen macaroni to tide him over.

The pizza joint is open and Clint is the only customer. Did he just get here faster than Bucky was expecting? He opens the flyer again, checking for any clocks he missed the first time. Nothing. Well screw it, Bucky said he's been spying on him, he'd be here if he wanted to be. Clint shrugs and orders a half dozen pies out of habit. He cruises around the place while his order is being boxed up, but no further clues are forthcoming. He's a bit disappointed, but six pizzas is at least a nice consolation prize if he can't have Bucky.

It's nearly five when he makes it back home, juggling the stack of six pizza boxes in one hand as he lets himself in.

The lights are on. Did he leave the lights on?

No, no that was probably Bucky. Who is sitting on his sofa. He waves at Clint. Clint waves back. What the hell? "What the hell?"

Bucky ignores this, and makes a gimme motion at the stack of pizzas. Clint wanders over on autopilot and tosses him the top box. He sits down heavily on the couch as Bucky tucks in to a slice of pepperoni. "Okay if you were going to come back here anyway, why did you have to send me on a goddamn scavenger hunt?"

Bucky chews for a long moment. "Mmf. Good pizza," he replies, his mouth full.

Clint waves his collection of marked-up flyers in Bucky's face. "Seriously! What the hell!"

Bucky looks up from his second slice. "Are you sure that's the question you want me to answer?"

"Yes! Yes it fucking is!"

Bucky sets down the pizza and leans in close to Clint, pinning him against the sofa. "You sure?" he asks softly.

Clint blinks. Clint audits his priorities _very quickly._ "Uh. Actually..."

"Actually?"

"I was also wonderi—" Clint stops mid-sentence because Bucky is kissing him and oh. Hello. What scavenger hunt, who said anything about a scavenger hunt.

They break for air and Clint smiles dazedly. Bucky asks innocently "Sorry, you were saying..?"

Clint waves a hand vaguely. "Nope. No words here. No sir."

Bucky grins and leans back, teasing. "You sure? I could have sworn I heard some complaining."

Clint makes a wait! motion with one outstretched finger. Words are hard but Clint is _prepared_ for this eventuality. YOU-ME MAKEOUT NOW, he signs in ASL.

Bucky's eyes widen. "Was that... let's kiss?"

Close enough. Clint nods his fist, an ASL "Yes." 

"Okay, how do you say "I want to get naked instead of explaining anything right now?"

"Oh, that one's easy," Clint says, and takes hold of Barnes's face and kisses the hell out of it.

=====

The sun is long since over the horizon when they slow down long enough to resume talking. Clint, head resting on Bucky's chest, closes his eyes and whispers "I really, really like you. Just so you know."

"That's me, putting the IKEA back in likeable."

Clint pauses to do the math there. Heh, good one.

"You, on the other hand, are lickable."

"Hah, nice," begins Clint, but any further assessment of Barnes's ridiculous endearments—who knew the Winter Soldier was so _goofy?_ This is _amazing_—is converted to squealing sounds as Bucky makes good on his observation and licks Clint's neck. 

"EEEEEEE!" thrashes Clint.

"What was that?"

Clint punches Bucky in the shoulder; Bucky catches his fist and licks that, too, and things escalate from there. It's well past noon when they achieve a sticky, happy ceasefire and doze off again.

Clint wakes up alone, again, and he's been doing that every morning for a lot of years, but he can't help but be disappointed. He shrugs on a ratty bathrobe and wanders out to see if there's another bizarre scavenger hunt waiting for him, but instead he finds Bucky, dressed in a pair of Clint's jeans, a snug t-shirt, and a pair of KRYDDNEJLIKA latex gloves, applying the last of a coat of varnish on the EKET. On the... purple... EKET. 

"What... how..."

"Morning!" chirps Bucky, without looking over, eyes intent on the shelf.

"It's purple," protests Clint.

Bucky looks up at this. "Ye-es? Isn't that what you wanted?"

Clint turns a bit purple himself. "Oh. Um. Actually that was... I was just trying to get your attention."

Bucky sets down the brush and carefully closes the tin of varnish before walking over. "Huh. Well, it worked," he says, tipping up Clint's chin for a brief kiss. Clint's hands drop automatically to pet Bucky's thighs, which are doing really excellent things to this pair of jeans.

Clint grins dopily, chasing Barnes's mouth for another kiss before trying to speak again. "How did you... I mean, I didn't think you could? Stain the EKET?"

Barnes puts a hand behind his neck and looks away sheepishly. "Well, uh. That's what the scavenger hunt was about. I needed some time to get supplies and set this up without you here." He waves over at a stack of purple-mottled used sandpaper, an empty tin of primer, and two small cans of a deep purple lacquer. "There's no wood grain layer, you can't stain it, but you can use tinted shellac as long as you—"

Clint interrupts with a kiss, and then another, and another. Eventually he pauses to whisper "You. Are a home improvement. God." in Bucky's ear. 

Bucky snorts. "Compared to you, maybe."

Clint nods in agreement. Bucky shakes his head fondly. 

"So uh," says Clint. "Help me move this down to Aimee's? If you're not... if you can... I mean," 

"Sure," agrees Bucky. "Although... we really should let it dry for several hours first."

Clint grins and takes Bucky's arm, tugging him back toward the bedroom. "You're the expert."

=====

"Hi, Clint? Steve Rogers here. Uh. Listen, I know you might not be able to give me details, but if you have any idea where in Sweden Bucky might have been, drop me a line, this number. Any time is great. Thanks."

=====

"Clint. Sam here. Listen, were you just yanking Rogers's chain? He might be frost-proof but I am freezing my ass off in Stockholm. Drop me a line buddy."

=====

"Natasha? Steve here. Look I'm sorry about the thing with Clint, I just—oh, hey, you there?"

"Steven."

"Uh. So like I was saying, I'm sorry about—"

"How's Stockholm this time of year."

"Uh. Nice?"

"Mm hmm. And you're wondering where Barnes is, right?"

"Uh... yeah! Yeah. Did Clint mention any details ab—"

"I can't say much. Need to know only, you understand."

"Of course! Of course. Anything you can—"

"Look in to goats."

"Goats?"

"Goats. That's all I can tell you."

"Goats. Gotcha. Listen, thanks Natasha, I appreciate your patience af—"

=====

"Clint. Sam again. I am on a fucking reindeer farm in fucking Finland. Any insight you can offer in getting Rogers the hell out of Scandinavia would be much appreciated."

=====

"Clint. Sam here. Do you have Natasha's number."

=====

"Clint?"

=====

=====

It's three months since Aimee and her roommate—Tim? Tina? Something like that?—have moved back in. Clint got a five dollar Starbucks card with hearts drawn all over it in sharpie along with their rent cheque their first month back, which is a pretty sweet tip from someone making bike messenger money. He's pretty sure it has something to do with Bucky "double-checking" his renovations and repairs, which took 24 hours, three trips to Lowe's (during business hours; Clint isn't banned there. Yet.) and a firm direction that Clint stay in his bedroom and not touch anything. Clint's ego was slightly bruised by this, but then Bucky bruised up a few other parts of him the night after and Clint's dick decided to call it even. More than even. Downright odd. But in a good way. Clint—

Well. Clint's pretty satisfied, all told.

Anyway. It's three months since the end of Clint's furniture adventure, and Bucky has pretty much moved in. He won't get a cell phone, or at least, not one that Clint is allowed to know about, which is probably fair given the whole poker app thing. So there's the occasional absence of a night or three when Clint has no idea when or if Bucky is coming back, but he does keep coming back, and Clint is almost ready to... trust it. 

Trust that Bucky's coming back. Trust that Bucky wants to come back. Trust that... trust that Bucky loves him.

Huh. How about that.

Natasha shows up at random for dinner once or twice a month. Or it seems random to Clint, anyway. Bucky always seems to have made extra food on those nights. Not to mention how he's always still wearing pants when Natasha opens the front door. Clint's had a few scrambles to the bedroom to hurriedly tug on a pair of sweats. 

Actually, that's happened _every_ time, now that he thinks back. Are they toying with him? Clint resolves to just brazen it out naked next time. That'll show Nat.

And the next time he cottons on early, notices Bucky turning eight pounds of ground pork in to meatballs for just the two of them. Bucky's got a super-soldier appetite and Clint can put away a whole pizza morning, noon and night when he's in fighting shape, but this is a bit much even so. So when there's a knock at the door, Clint smugly calls out "I'll get it!" and strolls up, nude, to let Natasha in. Bucky opens his mouth and holds up a hand, but then shrugs and turns back to the stove where he's making a lingonberry sauce to go with the main dish.

Clint opens the door. Natasha smirks.

Clint pretends not to notice. "Why, Natasha! What a pleasant surprise!" he nakedly greets her. "Do come in," he adds, ass flapping in the breeze. Natasha strides past him.

Followed by Steve and Sam. 

Aw, clothes, no. 

Steve virtuously keeps his eyes above chin-level and nods at Clint. Sam gives him a full once-over and shakes his head, snickering. Clint is tempted to just tough it out and _commit_, but damnit, it's chilly in here if you're naked and just standing around instead of keeping warm by boning down with a hot super-soldier. He slinks off to the bedroom morosely, and trudges back out to the living room just as Natasha, Steve, and Sam are sitting down. 

"Can I uh, get you folks some water?" he tries, noticing a bit too late that his shirt is on backwards.

"No, thank you," chorus Steve & Sam. They are kind of creepily in synch after so many months on the road together.

"Why Clinton, that would be lovely," replies Natasha. He narrows his eyes at this blatant Clint-baiting; she bats them innocently. He brings her water in a chipped mug that says ARCHERY IS LIKE DUCT TAPE, IT FIXES EVERYTHING. It's in comic sans, it's hideously ugly, and Clint adores it. It was a present from Kate.

Steve clears his throat. "So uh. Nat said you had something important to tell us? Is this a good... I mean... It seems like we're... I don't want to impose..."

Natasha interjects, rescuing Steve from this never-ending sentence. "No, what I said was that you had something important to hear at Clint's."

Steve frowns. "Isn't that what I just..."

His voice trails off at the sound of someone else clearing their throat, and he jumps up, jaw dropping, as he takes in the source: Bucky, standing in the entry to the kitchen, a black apron over his black t-shirt and black jeans. Clint surreptitiously takes this opportunity to take his shirt off and put it back on the right way around. Sort of surreptitiously. Natasha signs "smooth" at him in ASL and he signs a sarcastic thanks back at her. Clint 0, Nat 46,378. Sigh.

Bucky breaks the stunned silence. "I think she meant that I would have something to tell you."

Steve staggers forward without seeming to be aware of it, eyes wide. "Buck..."

"Hey, Stevie."

Steve stops just short of Bucky, reaches out a hand, and then lets it drop awkwardly. Bucky bites his lower lip and looks down. Clint comes up behind him and squeezes his shoulder in support. Bucky glances up and nods at him, then reaches out a hand to take Steve's. "It's okay, Steve, you can—"

Steve has him in a crushing hug by the end of "okay." 

"Bucky, I..." collides with "Steve, I..." and they laugh. Eventually Steve lets Bucky out of his death-grip hug, and holds him by the shoulders at arm's length, looking him up and down as if to reassure himself that he was real, that this was actually happening. 

"Buck, we've been looking for you for... I missed you so... where have you been?"

Bucky looks back over at Clint and smiles, then looks back to Steve, putting on an innocent expression. 

"Sweden. I thought you knew."

**Author's Note:**

> Russian translation! 
> 
> Любовь зла, полюбишь и козла: Love is cruel, you might fall in love with a goat.  
This is a real expression, ILU Russian collective psyche.
> 
> Сколько лет, cколько зим: Literally, this is "How many summers, how many winters" - it's the Russian equivalent of "long time no see!" with bonus Winter Soldier joke options.
> 
> I am a beginner at Russian and invite correction if I have screwed this up. XD 
> 
> I installed cyrillic language support on my laptop to further my Russian studies and now my graphics program will only run in the Russian localization, which only has about 2/3s of the menus translated and this has 1) been very inspiring to learn obscure graphics terminology in Russian by accident and 2) really let me connect with Clint's phone pain as a writer because I'm not stuck in caps lock, it's WORSE. Love is cruel, you might... lock layer transparency with a goat? HELP WHAT
> 
> =====
> 
> ASL sign-a-long tutorial!
> 
> YOU-ME - point to Bucky and then back to yourself, a couple times if you're excited  
MAKE OUT - make two fists, knock their knuckles together, and bob them up and down like they're teenagers making out in the back seat. Of a boat, why not, Clint is great at boats.  
NOW - make a "hang loose" symbol with each hand - thumb and pinky extended, other fingers down - palms facing you. Lower them sharply at the same time. 
> 
> I mean, alternately, raise your eyebrows to ask permission and then just start smooching, you'll get your message across.
> 
> SMOOTH: On both hands, touch your thumb to your pinkie and slide your thumb across your hand smoothly until you form a fist. Repeat to indicate super smoothness. Repeat with a skeptical facial expression for being as "smooth" as Clint.
> 
> SARCASTIC THANK YOU: touch the tips of the fingers of your right hand to your chin and pull your hand away from your body, while rolling your eyes at Natasha. If you instead look grateful, the same sign is a non-sarcastic thank you.
> 
> MOOSE LOBOTOMY TIME: This does not actually appear in the fic, but in the interest of cultural exchange I will teach you this vital phrase from Canadian vernacular ASL. MOOSE: Hold up your spread out hands to your temples, like they're antlers. That's the sign for deer. Now move them out and up, indicating that you have heckin' chonker antlers - now it's the sign for moose. LOBOTOMY: Make an L with your right index finger and thumb. Use the thumb to slice open your forehead. TIME: tap your wrist with your index finger twice. If you use your index and middle finger together (making an ASL N,) and tap the inside of your wrist (like you're taking someone's pulse) you're saying MOOSE LOBOTOMY NURSE. If you use your index, middle, and ring finger (making an ASL M,) to do that, you're discussing a MOOSE LOBOTOMY DOCTOR. Correct terminology is key for successful moose lobotomy insurance billing.
> 
> =====
> 
> My "research" folder for this fic consists 100% of ridiculous but genuine IKEA names. My favourite that didn't make it into the fic is LURVIG pet waste bag. Pretty sure that's all Clint's gonna use for Lucky for the next 5 years.
> 
> =====
> 
> Their first official date was a trip to the Småland ball pit together in the middle of the night, natch. First anniversary: same. Third anniversary: Bucky installed a ball pit in their spare room so they can be ball pit sharks without breaking in to Ikea, which Clint is still very banned from. Third anniversary plus one day: a NO SEX IN BALL PIT sign has to be installed, after an... incident. Look, it's really hard to clean lube out of a ball pit, okay? Fifth anniversary: Natasha gives them a commercial ball pit ball washing machine, conditional on them never, ever telling her about what they do in their ball pit ever again. The instructions are in Polish. Bucky gives Clint a shark hat and he wears it for 12 straight days.
> 
> =====
> 
> I'm on [twitter,](https://twitter.com/yamtimesthree) yellin' about Bucky usually.


End file.
